


easy listening

by acerbicapplecoffee



Series: distant voices, still lives [2]
Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Canon Related, Estrangement, M/M, Non-Chronological, Stream of Consciousness, Translation, Unresolved Sexual Tension, affection issues, total psychological drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 15:37:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13930101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbicapplecoffee/pseuds/acerbicapplecoffee
Summary: Nine p.m. remains nine p.m. at this second and in an hour and two hours later, and Matsuda is twenty six and something so far, and he thinks he is in love.





	easy listening

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Лёгкая музыка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13774779) by [acerbicapplecoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbicapplecoffee/pseuds/acerbicapplecoffee). 



> The epigraph is a jakugo from Zenrin-kushu — probably, one of my favourite ones.

Not returning  
for ten years:  
Forgot the path  
I came by.  
(531)  


It is night time, the indistinct time: upper floors; fully furnished but empty rooms, where even during the day only the sounds of the doors sliding aside and somebody’s rustling steps are sweeping into through the walls, as a muted echo, but at these hours nothing can be heard at all — being here feels awkward, realizing that all the rooms were built with no definite purpose and, most likely, were not intended for anyone, feels weird: the things are not settled that way in this country, in this country a person sometimes needs exactly as much space as his own arms, legs, head and suit occupy; scantily lit hallways and gray-tiled floor, so clean that they are ashamed simply to walk on it: they might have looked at themselves, like in the mirror — but do not want to see their own sleepless faces once again; their workplace, everything is cluttered with papers: documents, lists, files, conversation transcripts, photos, something personal appears every now and then, a note or a remark on the side of the page — so at the end of the day there is usually a mess that by the morning disappears completely, for no apparent reason: they drop off for a while, for three hours and no more, people are not able to manage without sleeping after all, and notice the papers carefully sorted out afterwards, but are not surprised by that anymore; two couches, almost new but homelike and, as it seems, slightly sagged already; they decided to turn off the lights: only two lamps right above the desks and the factitious glow from the screens are left — but that is enough; milky louvers on the large windows, closed tightly; and behind the still louvers there is the city.

At first Matsuda stopped half-way again and again, looked around almost thievishly whether anybody is watching him or not, but nobody ever was, and he went to these windows as if his legs were carrying him without him realizing, leant towards the glass and gazed at the street: at the sky, at the patches of sunlight, at the nearby buildings, at the road, at the small cars and tiny people, he gazed from a dream into another dream — and everything seen was so distant but alive, and Matsuda could have stayed there for hours, but the work reminded of itself sooner or later: either he recollected himself quickly, or someone called him from afar — and Matsuda, somehow despairingly taking a deep breath, remembered, that, after all, he was far from being the only one to work hard and not the only one to feel miserable, and then picked up the papers and files and hurriedly ran away. At first the windows were always wide open, but now remain untouched for weeks, and neither the air nor the wind are coming from outside: everything beyond these walls has faded away and only the louvers of milky colour are left, and Matsuda, without him noticing, does not aspire to come there and does not want to move away the clean fabric.

He has got used to it, perhaps.

 

_What do you need?_

This is a only small question which may get lost among others.

 

There are two of them in the room, him and Aizawa-san: they are sitting in shaky grey office chairs and cannot make themselves comfortable and breathe freely, they are holding the lists of names, staring into the monitors, rubbing their eyes and working. They always bear some kind of obscure responsibility, it does not lessen even at night, and they are working and working and working, and recently Matsuda completely ceased to understand why do they have to check the very same things for hundreds of times, because both since yesterday and since last week nothing has changed at all, even Ryuzaki is tangled in this case, he constantly rolls on another chair between them, face darken, acts up and without a twinge of conscience demands more and more coffee from Matsuda, and since Ryuzaki himself is not able to come up with anything, why should _they_ try; and Matsuda asked Aizawa-san about all of that so many times, he has lost count of those questions already, but still is not able to resist another, maybe absolutely insignificant reason to talk, and Aizawa-san should have lost his temper a long ago, however he is taking a heavy and tired look at Matsuda instead, so it is becoming as incomprehensible as that vague responsibility, and initially Aizawa-san is talking about that, indeed, and then he is finally saying that Matsuda actually is ineducable. And also, half-turned away, Aizawa-san is avowing that he cannot stop thinking about their situation, that he waits for the moment when everything will start over, that present month has appeared to be abnormally calm, as if they all are standing at the edge and there is only one mistake before they fall down, — but, no, really… just better don’t listen, this is hilarious, these words are so wrong: in their situation admitting suchlike thoughts means giving up beforehand, they didn’t go this far for _that;_ maybe now it seems that their efforts make no sense, and that’s why it’s so difficult to do anything, but if everything seems difficult, you must overcome yourself: if you give up too early, you will never achieve a single thing.

_Do you understand, Matsuda?_

_Do you?_

Mhm-mhm, yeah, sure, I think I do, and Matsuda is dazzled again — not even by the words, or their meaning, or the circumstances that led to them — but by the fact that Aizawa-san himself is saying them: Matsuda is looking at the words, pronounced and pronouncing, and at the lips where the words begin, and he is so amazed, as if he has never seen anything more interesting for his entire life, and Matsuda understands, really, he does understand — but just as easily he does forget: to hear everything once again, if he is lucky enough.

Yeah, I do… I surely… No, probably I don’t.

_Matsuda._

After all, he has all the luck so seldom.

 

Matsuda wonders: what does Aizawa-san like to talk about — even if not to him?

 

Aizawa-san has: a beige suit (what kind of person would wear such colours?), a hairstyle that instantly strikes the eye (what kind of person would agree to this on their own free will nowadays?), shined dark-brown shoes (in the hallways they are especially well heard, and Matsuda will never confuse the sound of these steps with any other), a cellphone of so many numbers as not every phonebook contains, a wide black umbrella, a leather briefcase and sheets of paper in his hands.

That is not so much and not so little — an ordinary person and that is totally fine and the entire half of police department looks this way — but for Matsuda that has turned out to be more than enough.

 

Orders always repeat, acting up does not decrease, tasks do not ever change, too: they are trying to grope what they have missed, to set their feet on the trail, and eventually they are just catching the winds, they have learned all case details by heart, and do feel how unnaturally slow the days are dragging on; to be honest, Matsuda supposes that Aizawa-san would have perfectly handled these tasks alone, even better than with him involved, but as he offered his help at once — Matsuda has forgotten why has he done it: most likely, he decided that working alone is much harder than working together, especially together with such a responsible person as Aizawa-san, — he later realized that he desperately wants that to remain unchanged, and could not help but force himself upon Aizawa-san almost every time there was an opportunity, without politeness, without common sense, and Aizawa-san, surprisingly, did not mind, but rather seemed pleased, or even glad, and in the end he asked simply and frankly what did Matsuda exactly try to find with such persistence, and Matsuda gave him a sincere answer, particularly because his reasons really were ingenuous — it surely sounded ridiculous: Aizawa-san was busy writing then, and after Matsuda’s answer he raised a pen to his mouth, thinking, and bit it slightly; Aizawa-san stared at Matsuda squint-eyedly for a while and, probably, decided something for himself and laughed heartily, leaning back on the couch.

At work, Aizawa-san seldom allowed himself to laugh freely.

Since then, as if by an unspoken agreement, it was Aizawa-san to call for Matsuda.

 

_Eriko? Do you hear me well? Do you — hear me well? Do you? That’s strange: you’re stifled by some noise here. A bit. Something about the phone, maybe… Why, no, I’m calling you after all… How are you? How’s Yumi-chan? Who said? Really? I never doubted it… She’s doing great! We should congratulate her, shouldn’t we? Can you give her the phone? Alright… Then tell her I’m happy for her. I understand, I understand… Well, what else can I say? It’s my fault, but you have to understand me too: who am I doing all of that for? Eriko, I can’t hear you, please say it again… I myself want to come back sooner… Yes, today I will, I’ll come back for dinner. I’ll be home by evening… Why are you saying this?.. When was the last time I lied to you, huh, Eriko?.. Hey, don’t… Eriko, don’t. Okay? I’ll come home by evening. I miss you too._

 

Being exposed to another person constantly and meeting the same person at innumerable crossroads face to face, willingly or not, who is able to ascertain unmistakably where the past seeing from under half-closed eyelids — the exiguity of which you are unpleasantly astounded with afterwards — ends exactly, and it is becoming apparent that for all this time your knowing has been plainly false; who is able to feel that elusive moment when the ingrained delusions are being realized and are turning to nothing, when the immensity of those subtle details is opening up behind the shroud of seemingly familiar facts which you took for granted once and which are so evident, making your head spin now; and there is an ordinary thought you are perceiving, the thought of details always making the entirety, of wonderful things always coming from wonderful things, and it is impossible for you to stop being amazed at one last circumstance: didn’t I actually understand this person appeared next to me so long time ago?

Most people are not able to, and Matsuda has never been an exception to the majority: he did not ask suchlike questions to himself — frankly, it has not occured for him to do so, — and hardly was about to watch any kind of sophisticated bursts of his own soul, especially the ones towards Aizawa-san, it was just that…

_Wonderful things always come from wonderful things — ordinary ones always come from ordinary ones — idiocy only comes from idiocy. Nothing happens ‘just like that’. Look at yourself — you have everything written right on your face. You can’t even lie properly, and since you can’t, why do you even try? Don’t pretend, that’s a bad excuse. You failed this time. You failed at everything — again._

…it was just that one of those days he looked, as usual, at Aizawa-san — Matsuda cannot remember when, all the dates have mixed into one everlasting number, however there is an extremely clear picture embedded in his mind: the usual room, the morning, about half past six, he has woken up too early for himself, Aizawa-san has woken up too late for himself; or, more precisely, here he is, he is only waking up now, face unshaved and slightly swollen, hands spread out, he took off his jacket yesterday but forgot about his tie, so the knot stretched out carelessly, his shirt crumpled and stuck out from under the belt, two upper buttons undone, his hair fell off on one side, a tangled mark from fabric on his left cheek; Aizawa-san is leaning upon his elbows, sitting up, yawning, closing his eyes tightly and rubbing them a couple of times, and glancing at his watch — he would be glad to fall back down, but there are so many important things to do yet, the work will not wait for anyone, — and feeling that he is being watched, turning around, noticing Matsuda, cheering up and asking hoarsely, "What big eyes you make… What, Matsuda, am I funny now? You don’t look any better than me, by the way," and saying him good morning, and on the one hand, Matsuda would like to say so many things back, but on the other hand, he always talks about something, he always talks, but barely listens, and those wonderful moments when everything is fine and there is no need to change anything are so exceptional that if he spoils one of them with another stupid word, he probably will never forgive himself for that, and so there are no choices left but to nod and to wish Aizawa-san good morning in return.

Maybe, that morning Matsuda found out something that nobody else would consider as such a great discovery: he found out that Aizawa-san at work and Aizawa-san off work are two completely different people.

 

_What do you need?_

This is a simple, a rude question, even — however the number of answers is infinite.

 

“But he stopped talking, hunched over even more, turned his chair to me, tilted his head and puffed up, you know, like he’s allowed to put me in the cell for a month and he’ll just get away with it, and then he’s saying to me: _I highly recommend you, however, to take some professional retraining courses, Matsuda-san. I hope, you’re able to do that, aren’t you?_ Professional retraining!.. What does this even mean, Aizawa-san? Well, yeah, I dropped that tray, I did, I spilt that coffee on him and his cakes — and so what? I didn’t study for a waiter! He was so scary looking, too… I’m even afraid of him sometimes. You see, Aizawa-san, on first days I just couldn’t get used to his appearance, but now… He’s like a ghost, you know, he’s really pale too, moving strangely and all that — the difference is that ghosts will curse you to death and this ends everything, but he’ll keep putting you down forever… I mean, that’s not putting down, that… Even that he doesn’t do like normal people! Why do I always have to be the only idiot here, Aizawa-san? Why calling me names? That’s not fair, people get offended by that! Aizawa-san, you probably think I’m an idiot, too? I wouldn’t like you to think of me this way… But that’s okay, even if you do — I wouldn’t take offence at you: I think you’re a fair person, Aizawa-san. You can…”

“Matsuda.”

“Yes, I think you can… Aizawa-san?”

“Could you just answer my question — please.”

“What question?”

“I’m sorry of course, maybe I’m mistaken here, but — do you ever keep in touch with your family? Any… problems, perhaps?”

“That… That’s fine! That’s always been fine, I guess…”

“And no problems at all?”

“No… But why are you asking?”

“Matsuda, just answer clearly what you’re asked about. Are you sure?”

“Well, yes, I am. I never even thought otherwise somehow…”

“Sure… Well then. So I was wrong… You were talking about Ryuzaki — what happened next?”

“Wrong? What are you talking about, Aizawa-san? I don’t understand why…”

 

Matsuda wonders: what did Aizawa-san look like when he himself was twenty six years old?

 

Matsuda honestly worked for hours and hours but could not bear it in the end — he has fallen asleep, almost feverish, on the sagged couch and is seeing a dream: Aizawa-san is kneeling down, leaning towards him, carefully moving strands of hair away and kissing him on his forehead.

In this dream, Aizawa-san has dry palms and warm lips, and Matsuda is not hasten to wake up at all.

 

There are still two of them in the room, him and Aizawa-san: they are shifting from chairs and the monitor screen to the couch and papers and backwards, and they seem to be working; tonight the clock has stopped here: there is no point to check the time anymore, but although Matsuda’s watch still works, he does not know which one he should believe — his own one shows that no less than a half of an hour has passed already, but it seems to him somehow that the room clock is right nevertheless; Matsuda is telling Aizawa-san about that — Aizawa-san is half-rising, looking aside at the wall, discerning those frozen clock hands, remarking displeasedly that some _certain_ people begrudged to spend money both for chairs and clocks, and asking thereafter, as though accidentally, what does Matsuda mean by his last words. Matsuda is explaining and thus he is blurting out unnecessary things again: he definitely has long left the border of superfluous words behind, however realizes it far too late, as always — only after Aizawa-san hears this answer, scrutinizes Matsuda’s face and hands with growing suspicion, grasps his shoulder, turns Matsuda to himself hastily and orders to look him right in the eye.

And Matsuda does.

Matsuda believed he had nothing to hide, and therefore did not worry: he always splashed out superfluous words, this unreliable trait went to him of all people, but, apparently, there is a limit for everything, and he already has crossed his own one and has not noticed in the least, more and more words were gathering bit by bit, and exactly today there has appeared to be too many of them; moreover, somehow Aizawa-san has the finest understanding of the distinction between sane and insane, between acceptable and unacceptable, and when the second kind prevails, he begins to take action, as some of his personal considerations suggest, and it is much better and safer to exclude the thought of trying to stop him: Matsuda ingenuously believed he had absolutely nothing to hide, but Aizawa-san spots every detail, he even listens to these superfluous words of Matsuda and draws definite conclusions, and right now Aizawa-san is so close that Matsuda’s soul is turning inside out and he is almost sensating himself being suspected of all possible wrongs, but at the same time he wants to be suspected — and this feeling is the most difficult to explicate and justify.

It is extremely important to know and remember that discontent and concern are reflected on Aizawa-san’s face nearly the same way. Hard to distinguish. You must feel. You must think.

But Matsuda has never been able to _think._ He cannot _think._ He is fading out.

Aizawa-san is examining his looks intently and noticing his unconscious movements, checking his breath but there is nothing worth finding, and Aizawa-san is whispering thoughtfully, rather for himself, what is that he’s doing and why, how would Matsuda managed to, especially today, at what place, Matsuda didn’t take a step away, he would’ve noticed in any case, he surely would’ve noticed, and it obtrusively seems to Matsuda that… but in the very next instant Matsuda is overtaken by disappointment and grievous shame for this disappointment: Aizawa-san is assuring himself once more, muttering that Matsuda just behaves like a child, and only after that he is letting Matsuda go, glance lingering on the wrinkled shirt fabric he has just been gripping, and returning to the forgotten papers too impulsively. Matsuda, dumbfounded, is also leaning over these documents, but is giving up after the first line of text, he is rubbing his eyes and loosening his tie, and it _seems_ to him again, so Matsuda is looking aside at Aizawa-san — to find that Aizawa-san is looking aside at him. They are turning away from each other together, too.

It is not going to last long.

The unending nine p.m. is gazing them mutely from the wall.

 

Aizawa-san has: a small comb and a bunch of keys in the pockets of his jacket, a lighter and some money (just in case) in the pockets of his trousers, an untied lace on his left shoe (he has to fix it from time to time), a platinum engagement ring which Matsuda stubbornly refuses to look at, dry wide palms and long fingers (there is a plaster on one finger — the last evening Aizawa-san cut himself with paper by accident), slightly stooped shoulders, three tiny moles on his neck, an oblong chin, a habit of rubbing his lips when in thought, a curved nose, thick eyebrows and a demanding, meticulous, working eye expression — these are the public outlines yet, everybody can observe them, but Matsuda likes to imagine himself being the first to do, though it is necessary to lie a bit then, and when Matsuda accustoms himself to these particularities to such an extent that he finds some misshapen echoes of Aizawa-san’s temper, some irrational replication of it in his own behaviour, he begins to suffer by a thought that he will never manage to reach out for more.

 

_Yes? Eriko? Something’s happened at home? What’s going on here… Could you say it once again, louder… Eriko, you know it yourself: a lot of work, and we talked about that already. No — I just can’t say more. Eriko, you don’t need that, it would be easier this way… Why would… What? What do you mean — I didn’t call? Just a little while ago I… Turned off? It couldn’t be turned off all that time… I guess I forgot… Alright. I’m so sorry, Eriko… I messed it up. Yes, I forgot — that’s all… Eriko, please don’t worry so much… I’m begging you. For how many years we’ve been living like this, but now… Please, don’t worry. Okay? I’m saying it honestly — I don’t know if I’ll get in time… Eriko… I miss you. Very much. I want to get home… Yes, I’ll try to come for dinner. I’ll come._

 

He called his father, but after three trembling dial tones he quickly pressed the button and turned off the phone eventually, he wanted to call his mother, but remembered that he would not be able to tell anything proper, so she would only get upset to tears, he called his friends, but only the answering machines responded, he tried to call some people whom he had recently known and whose face features he had to recollect sullenly by the kanji strokes, but the only thing he heard was the emptiness interrupted with whisper-like hum noises occasionally.

 

Matsuda wonders: where was Aizawa-san born?

 

Sometimes Aizawa-san takes out his wallet with two or three tiny colored photos inside, they are scalding Matsuda’s eyes as if with a guiltless flame, and Matsuda’s face is unwittingly distorted all of a sudden, and he is turning away in a hurry, cheeks reddened, or simply walking away to the other side of the room — not only because he feels sickeningly bitter and ashamed, but also because every time when it happens, Matsuda is forced to acknowledge that the essential has never been supposed to involve him. Only those happy smiles in the photos.

_What do you need?_

And it is so scary to answer somehow.

 

Aizawa-san could have: scolded him unrestrainedly, lavished him with disdain, perceived him as a traitor, clutched him so harsh there would be bruises, thrusted him to the wall and elicited a correct answer, wiped hands on the jacket with disgust, dismissed him and forgotten about his very existence, left without a word in return, been disappointed without leaving a chance to fix this mistake, closed eyes and ears tightly, given him a sore lecture, taken pity on him, just as people take pity on the incurable ones, made him understand what responsibility actually is about for god knows what time and all in vain; however, Aizawa-san also could have: looked at Matsuda as if he’d never known him before, smiled, called Matsuda by his name, run his fingers through Matsuda’s hair, thrown Matsuda’s jacket off and away, unbuttoned Matsuda’s shirt and unzipped Matsuda’s trousers, pulled Matsuda close, kissed Matsuda until it hurts, until they are both dead drunk — Aizawa-san could have done everything whatever Matsuda wanted, whatever Matsuda deliriously thought about on these indistinct days, whatever, who knows, Aizawa-san imagined himself…

_So this is what you’re lying for? Dodging, holding back, looking aside… So this — is what you’re lying for? Don’t you feel any shame at all?_

And here is the fact: Matsuda is lying again — Aizawa-san is not going to do any of these things, whether they are good or bad.

Simply because Matsuda has no right for that. Simply because Aizawa-san is an honest person.

 

"Aizawa-san, what are you thinking about?”

“What kind of questions is that?”

“I thought you’d like it. You’re so strict, Aizawa-san…”

“Why so — I like it. A nice question. What I don’t like is that you’re too… you’re thinking about _outside matters_ too much.”

“Outside matters?..”

“Matsuda, don’t act like this, you’ve understood me perfectly. Just concentrate and sort it out. You can do that, can’t you.”

“You don’t want to talk now?”

“No, say it. We won’t fall asleep then. But — Matsuda, don’t forget we’ve got some work to do yet.”

“Aizawa-san…”

“What’s the matter?”

“How do you think, what will happen after that?”

“After that is when?”

“Well, after _that._ After this case is over.”

“We’ll catch Kira, come back home and live in peace. It will end like this — plain and simple. No less. You shouldn’t even consider anything worse, Matsuda. Where did these doubts come from?”

“That’s so strange, Aizawa-san… Sometimes it seems to me all of this is not actually happening — the killings, the Kira case, the fact that there are only five of us left of the entire department and that we happened to see Ryuzaki’s face for some reason and even that we’re talking right now… This is not for real. Like when you’re seeing nightmares. The same day drags on and on here, but so many things have changed outside… And we’ll get out of here many years later and we’ll be so old then; that’s scary — not that much, but…”

“Matsuda, you know… We have a certain plan — it may be as poor as it is, but at least we have one; also we have a purpose — we identified it clearly in the very beginning. And this period between our conversation and our purpose is completely under our responsibility. But I think we shouldn’t look that far. Especially you. We’re trying to work right now and we are living right now. Nobody’s able to know what… what even the next day may look like, and if we imagine how many things can change in such a long time… We’re definitely not geniuses, Matsuda. Although we try to meet these requirements.”

“You’re probably right, Aizawa-san… Responsibility is hard!.. So hard… Oh, by the way, Aizawa-san, would you like some coffee? I wanted to make myself a cup, but forgot till just now!”

“Yeah, thanks. So, responsibility is hard, huh… Wouldn’t know it by looking at you.”

“Aizawa-san… How long ago did you go out anywhere? You know, hanging out, having fun…”

“Like where?”

“For a drink, at least. I’ve even forgotten when was the last time I went outside just for a walk…”

“Are you inviting me?”

“Why: me — no… Yes… I am!..”

“So we’ll go, then. Later, after we catch Kira. We surely will… I’ll make sure of that.”

Aizawa-san is turning round in his chair, leaning with one of his elbows on the desk and touching his hair slightly, watching Matsuda from over his shoulder, and smiling — not openly, but so… caressingly, perhaps? — and it is as though something is torn apart deep inside Matsuda’s chest: he should not have seen it, especially through this dim light, he was not supposed to, but he noticed it anyway, because now he is _looking into_ — and Matsuda is neither able to move nor to avert his eyes away nor to utter a word, yet at the same time he understands — or moreover, he feels deep in his bones that he has fallen into a trap again and he will not get out of it so easy, and thus he is standing there, petrified, incoherent, ridiculous and touched with faint and oblique glows from the monitor screens, and in front of him there is Aizawa-san.

“Well, Matsuda? Why have you stopped there? What are you waiting for?”

Everybody says: Matsuda’s worst trouble is that he first does something and begins to think about the consequences when it is too late and they cannot be fixed. Everybody is aware of that — the only one ignorant remains Matsuda himself.

_Whom are you waiting for?_

However Aizawa-san is not saying anything else.

And Matsuda is looking at Aizawa-san tensely, and rebuking himself for his own ridiculousness, and thinking as quickly as probably never before, and thinking about the wrong things all along, and he wants to come up and touch, and he wants to save this smile for himself alone, and he wants to squeeze the armchairs in the most embarrassing way, and he wants this exact moment to become into forever, but Aizawa-san’s face has already changed, and with every inescapable second of realization it more and more seems to Matsuda that, maybe, he _is_ an idiot after all.

 

_What do you need?_

Ponderous answers give no moment of peace, all because the truth must be explained easily.

 

_What did you even do before?.. You’re not used to work seriously, haven’t you ever had to? And this person’s almost thirty years old… I keep teaching you all the time, but it turns out I have to look after you as well — you’ll just die otherwise and won’t ever know! He doesn’t hear a thing already… What are you looking at? Don’t. You’re always looking. As if I’m blind… Wait, where are you… stand still! Lie down here. What can I cover you with, if I had any blanket on hand… Alright, let it be. How did you end up here with me: you’re acting just like a child… Okay, okay, go to sleep now; and tomorrow we’ll… And tomorrow we’ll try to teach you once again. Sleep well. Children need to sleep more... Right, children grow up sooner when they see dreams..._

This is what appeared through a dense and drowsy mist once. Rustled faintly and then scattered away.

 

Matsuda wonders: who is Aizawa-san?

 

At different times Aizawa-san turns out to be: irascible, disagreeing, intolerant, furious, asking uncomfortable questions, indignant, stubborn, gloomy, excessively free, plainly impolite, disappointed, forthright, strict, pragmatic, critical, collected, focused, encouraged, self-sacrificing, overwhelmed, exhausted, bewildered, able to make a mistake, able to admit a mistake, careful, trustworthy, patient, sincere, attentive, vulnerable, sensitive, tenderhearted, devoted, familiar for the entire life, unbearably kind, extremely simple and extremely complicated — you may invent so many definitions, you may simply watch him and invent nothing; Aizawa-san’s face changes easily and naturally: Aizawa-san is not obliged to criticize it and is not obliged to answer for it neither to people around nor to his own conscience, because his face does not comprise anything shameful, stupid and irresponsible, any double meanings — this is the way Aizawa-san is, and the sudden outcome in the person of Matsuda who became keen on the idea to misinterpret everything and ultimately went too far, is not his fault.

 

_Yes? Yes, Eriko? I can’t hear you, say it louder… What are you saying? Very busy, everyone’s working. Me?.. The same about me. My clothes is fine yet, no need to. Today? No, I won’t be able to. Working late. Eriko… Yes. Yes, I know for how many days I haven’t been home… Do you think I’m happy about that? What? Of course I do love… Just — don’t start it over again, we already talked… I can’t hear you. It just seems this way to you? What does it seem to you? Eriko, please don’t. We’re both adult people… Eriko, don’t, calm down, you’ll frighten the children… Calm down. Why are you talking like this? I’m really tired… I know, I know… So, you want to say that I myself like working like that, I myself like having no sleep for days — this is what you want to say? No, I don’t — but I must! I must, do you understand? My work is my responsibility, all of this — is my responsibility!.. Well, fine, fine, let’s not quarrel over the phone. Calm down. Please. And I’ll calm down, too. Go to sleep now. I won’t come back home tonight, Eriko._

 

...it’s just that you can look at some people closely, without noticing, and you can notice other people right away, without looking.

Aizawa-san was a noticeable person.

 

_What do you need?_

 

There are always two of them in this room, him and Aizawa-san: they are benumbed, each in his place, and still making attempts to work, nearly spasmodic, and the attempts are failing one by one, their hands are not holding, their eyes are not reading, their thoughts are all about the outside matters, about the irresponsible, indecent and vain matters, and this is no longer the work, but the utter pretension — not even in the face of each other, but in the face of themselves, — and although twenty minutes ago they supposedly figured it out, right now everything is falling apart; the clock has stopped here, the phones are silent here — what had started as the statics on communication line, ended as rapid dial tones into the emptiness, and it soon became clear that those few people from the outside, from the windows never opened and the louvers closed, do not really need to hear Matsuda’s voice and all those grinning hellos, untimely questions, bothersome jokes, petty stories and constrained goodbyes of his, and Matsuda himself does not really need to break to them through the wordless abyss, and then he gave up on calling completely, — and in the end there is nobody left in the entire building but him and Aizawa-san, or, perhaps, there has never been anybody, and, to be honest, the abnormality of what is happening should grate on Matsuda’s nerves: because he is a people person for terms of life, because he loves it when everything is vivid and talkative, when there is no free space for you to stay on; because Matsuda is breaking his neck in efforts to make this exact impression on people he meets; because this exact way Matsuda is seen to be, is proven to be better in all respects, so much better than the person he has built on his own; because he made the only proper decision of his adult life, and therefore has come to this point of view, and he is not going to, does not want to take it back; because it was much easier for Matsuda to overcome both the aftermath of frankness and the reproaches in sincerity than the reminders of past failures, which every person is surrounded with in heavy moments of loneliness — and if anybody else, anybody more reasonable and sensible, put his sensations and feelings into valid words and frankly said them aloud, Matsuda would be genuinely surprised — both at the strangeness of this description and its truthfulness: there is nobody left in this building for the reason that Matsuda was fervently and purposely crossing out of his memory all the familiar faces and was replacing them with the only one, with the incarnation of solidity and reliability, with the complete opposite of himself, pushing away everything else far into the background, and now Matsuda is observing this face at any moment he wants to, in any expression he has witnessed and is even able to think up the new ones, however he would like to see them in reality much more; yes, Matsuda was fond of different people before, hardly understanding the complexity of little sympathies and affections and just as easily gave up on them sometimes, and he was offering his light hands to the whole world, they even were accepted occasionally, but that time has disappeared without a trace, like the second childhood bygone, and the most incomprehensible thing remains that Matsuda barely regrets it.

The room is bursting with viscous, deafening silence, the work is forgotten and abandoned, the last excuse has exhausted itself, Matsuda is staring through a sheet of paper, through some words and numbers and has absolutely no idea of what is written there, has no idea of why is he gripping a pencil, biting his lips, tousling his hair and brushing it with his fingers again, why is it so cramped and stuffy here, why does it seem like his body and mind are naked, why is fear gnawing his soul — the feverish moment has circled itself, and Matsuda feels it cannot go on like this anymore, he has to do something, even if shouting out loud into the night darkness of the headquarters, and the more he is convinced of this, the more he is struck by Aizawa-san’s hesitation — Matsuda has never assumed he would know Aizawa-san like this.

In late winter, when they were still wandering from one Tokyo hotel to another, Aizawa-san told him that every person has to make a certain choice sooner or later, and it doesn’t matter whether it will be significant or not; a person is free to act not as expected, but as he would like to — within reasonable limits, considering the circumstances and consequences, taking responsibility for that decision. He said, it’s really difficult to make the right choice. He said, it’s easy only for those who don’t want to think about it — or haven’t learned how to do it yet.

It was night and it was snowing, and they were standing on the narrow balcony of a hotel room, coats thrown on their shoulders. One or two TVs were constantly turned on indoors — the voices of news anchors were heard behind their back even then. Aizawa-san, frowned, slouched and tired, was smoking a cigarette and gazing at somewhere down the road. His eyes were bloodshot, every once in a while he was rubbing them with the edge of his palm and closing them tight. Then he turned to Matsuda and stared into his face — with some kind of pity, maybe. Asked Matsuda quietly but firmly if he’d thought about his choice yet, if he’d had any clear idea of what he was about to give his life for, of what did he want to chase for, of why did he lock himself up without the right to leave… Matsuda is only — how old is he? He still has so much ahead of him.

And Matsuda blurted out that yes, of course he did, he thought it all beforehand, he didn’t need long time to decide anyway, because he’s not a coward. He was called for — and so he came along. He had no one to hold on to, either. That’s right, that was his reply — no more and no less. It seems like he even tried to laugh, too — but didn’t believe it himself.

Aizawa-san only screwed his features in a mirthless smirk.

Also Aizawa-san’s hands were shaking.

There was nothing seemingly special about that conversation, it lasted for about five minutes at most — in winter they were actually investigating the case yet and did not sleep at all, the moments of rest were so rare, and even if the luxury of free time was granted to them, they would still have no clue of how to behave before each other: probably, a glance or a chuckle or a word was more than enough for Aizawa-san to form rather a bad impression of Matsuda, and Matsuda, in his turn, simply was somewhat afraid of Aizawa-san — nevertheless that conversation did not get lost among crazy events of the beginning of 2004 for some reason, and although the memory slightly grew dim, a few reference points remained, if you approach one of them, the rest will brighten up: winter, hotel, choice, responsibility, pity, smirk, shaking — and now Matsuda is worried by a suspicious feeling that his second unsteady life which unfolded within these walls and buried under itself the first life without appearing to do so, ends on the same matter it began from; that all Aizawa-san’s efforts to protect himself and to get Matsuda out of this abyss at the same time have spelt disaster, and if Matsuda insists a bit more, Aizawa-san will give up — at least, for a while — his own judgments and dignity; and that Matsuda is given the opportunity to make his decision the second time — on the same basis, on the same occasion, — however he will mess it up, just like an eternal kind-hearted idiot, and will be unceasingly convincing himself of the opposite afterwards, and he will surely succeed — even after all of his scarce arguments become thin at once and crumple into dust — he will only have to cover his ears with palms, close his eyes as tightly as possible and talk disjointedly, loudly, talk more, more, more, until his voice falls into scream.

So is there any need to doubt if you were initially expected only to make mistakes?

And when Matsuda glances over his shoulder nervously and notices that Aizawa-san is pursuing his lips, groping the pockets on his trousers nearly without a sound, searching his jacket through, pulling out a pack of cigarettes which appears to be empty, clenching his fists, unclenching, finally tapping his fingers on the table, but is not, is not able to stop his hands from shaking, shaking in the very same way as that winter night, Matsuda’s breath is taken away.

“Aizawa-san, your…”

“I know! I know. I _feel_ that you’re looking at me, Matsuda. I’m _not_ an idiot. Turn away at least for now. Does it feel nice to see this? What are you up to? This? No, no, wait… Of course… I’m not even going to stop you. But since _you_ are going to make a mess and we’ll have to deal with it together, then listen to me first. Carefully. Matsuda, you’re not a bad person after all — I didn’t consider myself as one, too…”

“You’re a great person!”

“Don’t interrupt me. You’ve never been serious enough, you don’t know how to focus on important things, you have no intention to grow up as well. No matter how many times I told you… Right, here it is. I tried — and I failed. I don’t want to think why I even tried. And I won’t — I’m too late anyway. During these months you haven’t changed a single bit.”

“Is that so bad?”

“Matsuda, _for god’s sake!_ Listen to the end at least once!”

“I — always!”

“That’s the thing: you listen, but you never hear it right. As if… You decided beforehand what do you want to understand. And that’s all. You avoid the rest. Whether you realize it, whether you don’t — I have no idea. A normal person cannot be so… so uneducable. Cannot be! Shouldn’t be! I could and can see that you’re definitely not an idiot. You’re trying to pretend, but you can’t even lie properly. And I thought — why is it happening like that? What are you trying to do? I shouldn’t have been interested, because all of that is your personal issues… _Personal issues… Outside matters..._ How did it cross… How can I ever face… I haven’t thought of that. That’s my fault. All of that — is my responsibility… I didn’t want it this way. How can… You’re always somewhere around. I should’ve get used to it a long ago, but… There are too much of you. Flickering here, there, in front of me, at hands… Wherever I went to — you’re always there again. I can’t… _Oh goddammit_ — I can only hear your voice, I cannot remember any familiar face but yours!.. I need answers — answer to me: why? Why don’t we open these windows? Why is it stuffy and we’re still sitting here and don’t get a _thing?_ Why is it always dark here? Do you think it has to be like this? You think this is how people live? Intertwining with each other, gluing together, are dead for everything else and can’t see beyond their own noses? No… No, you won’t answer clearly. Even if you wanted — you wouldn’t be able to. I wouldn’t be able to as well… What, Matsuda, am I funny now? Am I funny? Exactly — even I cannot look at myself without laughing: I had at least a kind of certainty before — I knew where I was going. I knew the reasons. I knew I could look back and be glad that I left something worthy behind. I could at least imagine that I lived this life honest and right. That I never deceived anybody. A person needs certainties. Needs to stand firmly on his feet. This is the basis, everything is coming from it!.. Without it the path — the way… the life is falling apart, shrinking, becoming so… humble. Worth only laughing at. I — need certainties!.. Why are you… looking. Apparently, in the end the only idiot is me — because I thought too much…”

Aizawa-san has long been rushing from one side to another, he is not looking at Matsuda, speaking rather to himself, raising his arms and incensing himself more and more, and there are shrilling tiny sounds blowing up in his speech, completely unnatural for him, and Matsuda realizes he must come up with a persuasive argument, must save them both somehow, must find a peaceful explanation of the things happening — because he did not want it this way, too: all this time Matsuda has been struggling to remove the public face of Aizawa-san just a little, to look behind it just a little and to make sure of those beautiful things he half watched nearby himself and half invented in his mind, but he certainly did not expect he waded much farther, just as did not expect that Aizawa-san would lose his face in front of him so easily; at this instant Aizawa-san voice is cracked, he is growing silent abruptly, as if choking with the unintentional whirl of words he has never wasted before, punching on the table, coming up unsteadily, hunched and oldened, to a window tightly closed, and staring with unseeing eyes how the hour hand has frozen on the number nine and how the minute hand has frozen on the number four, they are not even quivering or ticking — then he is taking a deep breath, straightening up, turning to Matsuda and resting his palms on the top of the desk, he, embittered with determination, is keeping on speaking.

“What do I even need — myself?.. I’ve forgotten everything, forgotten… I don’t know! I already said I’m not going to stop you. I won’t do it, sure — I see no point. Have it the way you want! Hell with it! Great! What’s the difference — living humiliated anyway… Whether this way or another…"

There are exactly four unheard steps between Aizawa-san and Matsuda, and Aizawa-san is not giving them any importance, he is grabbing the back of an armchair, dragging it behind himself, sitting down and facing Matsuda and crossing his fingers and leaning forward, even closer.

“Do what you want to do, you’re free to decide. But the responsibility will also be yours. Responsibility… That was a blank word for you — maybe now you’ll see… Maybe I will do it right… a child should grow up someday… A child should grow up, shouldn’t he…”

Throughout his life, Matsuda often recalled of a discovery he made as a child — if you repeat the same word over and over again, many times in a row, without breaks and without thinking about the meaning, after a while this word simply crumbles: falls into syllables, letters, sounds, and loses any meaning it consisted of, dissolves into the air and suddenly it is forgotten, disappeared in a blink of an eye, there is was — and it is gone; it was just a fun way to spend time at first, but over the years it has become incredibly useful: since all the things said aloud are so easy to destroy, they cannot bring and do any harm; since an offensive and bitter word does not exist, a reason to take offence and suffer does not exist as well.

Aizawa-san is a serious person, he has left such discoveries in the distant past, however he told Matsuda about responsibility so many times that he has probably destroyed its definition with his own hands and never assumed that, and right now he is drowning, he is clinging to the fragile flotsam of certainties he has not been able to imagine himself without, but there is not much left under his hands and Aizawa-san is going down, and Matsuda knows he actually is the one to blame, no matter what Aizawa-san has whispered to him, and also Matsuda knows he is not going to help Aizawa-san and, most likely, is not going to feel any shame this time — until the phones start working and calling again, the other people’s voices are heard and the clock hands come back to life on the bleary dial.

Aizawa-san has his tie loosened, sleeves of his shirt rolled up and crumpled, collar unbuttoned. Aizawa-san has his eyebrows drawn together painfully, lips pursed, perplexity and weariness in his glance. Aizawa-san has an unfamiliar face.

And Matsuda is reaching out for it.

 

Nine p.m. remains nine p.m. at this second and in an hour and two hours later, and Matsuda is twenty six and something so far, and he thinks he is in love.

21.02.18

**Author's Note:**

> (the dialogues are fine read in Russian, but for some reason I have a feeling that the English variation needs to be fixed multiple times — please tell me if you notice some particularly rude mistakes!)
> 
> This is only my humble assumption of course, but there is definitely much more of me and my personal crisis than any hint on Matsuda and Aizawa's personalities in this text. However, I didn't set a goal of achieving a complete similarity to canon — my intention was different and I think I handled it nice enough.


End file.
